Things He Told Himself
by Kilonji
Summary: Sixth stanza: The rabbit hunt takes a bad turn for Renji.
1. Ichigo

It wasn't that he needed her. 

She was useful, yes, and without her he would never have touched the vast space that was his power, the open canvas that was his destiny. when her zanpaktou pierced his heart, his snowy world had been thrown into a vivid technicolor. No, he thought, that happened the moment she stepped through his wall and onto his desk, her face all business, her body a bamboo reed with a steel center.

It wasn't that he missed her.

She was that calm presence that steadied him, strengthened him. He shuddered at the thought of the hooligan he was before, all power and no control. Somehow seeing her struggle with common things—zippers, retractable pens, and those damned juice boxes—reminded him of how much he enjoyed being a big brother. When Karin and Yuzu were younger, the time he spent with them was different than the other hours and minutes. Here was responsibility, and here was the fulfillment of knowing he was needed. For a while he let himself dream that Rukia needed him too, just not in the same way.

It wasn't that he loved her. She'd been gone eleven days. He tossed around on his bed, and it was damn near three am before he realized he could not sleep without the thin wisps of her breath emanating from his closet or the light tussle he'd hear when she tossed and turned, apparently in the thrall of her own nightmares.

Yes, she had nightmares too. It was this, he mused, that actually connected them. Something normal they shared. She had been there and probably witnessed his night torment firsthand, and he almost swore he felt her warm hand on his cheek.  
And her warmer lips on his forehead. Motherly but for the fact that she was nothing close to it. From there his mind would descend to some place between here and heaven where she would hold him, tell him she was coming home and everything would be alright. And she would not protest when he took advantage of her comfort and touched her in places he only imagined were accessible to him.

And he would wake the next morning with renewed resolve that he would make that dream come true.


	2. Gin

There would never, under any circumstances, be a reason to cross swords with Rangiku.

That was a lie. Of course there would be. He knew that, he just kept the lie up in his mind because the truth was one of the few things that actually tormented him. Just where did she fit into the grand scheme of things, and how would this play out?

He had been good at hiding his meticulous nature. He had never entered a battle he could not win, he had never acted as though anything at all stressed him out much, he had never stepped out of the role and the mask Aizen had taught him to create, he had never. . .

He had never told her the truth.

Of course he couldn't. Not without involving her. And it shocked him, badly, when he realized it was harder to keep a step ahead of her than it seemed. She was never anything but straightforward, and despite the reputation of being a vacuous bimbo, her mind worked in a similar fashion. When he had become taichou, and she had become fukitaichou in her own right, it was difficult to spend time with her as they once had. The conversations they did manage to have were fraught with hidden meaning; he could never get over the way she could ask a question with her eyes. _Why are you so cruel? How can you be so flippant? What are you doing?_

And it sometimes pained him that he didn't have an answer for her. Not one that would please her, at any rate.

Aizen had been far easier to fend off. In his arrogance, he accepted what Gin told him about Rangiku as gospel. She was useless, thoughtless, prone to obstinacy. Only one of those statements was true. Had Aizen known this, it might have been Rangiku, and not Hinamori, whose faith and devotion was rewarded with a sword through the gut. But Gin had thrown him off her scent. This much, he knew, he could do for her. He knew there was very little else.

He knew that for cold, hard fact on that night when he nearly had taken care of Aizen's Hinamori problem. "I'll fight you from here on," she told him and meant it. And probably expected to kill or be killed. She was not weak in the way that her feelings could dictate her actions. Not always, anyway. Here she made it clear to him where her loyalties lay. He could do nothing in the face of her honesty (which put a spotlight on his dishonesty) but walk away. She could kill him if she had to. But he could never kill her.

So when the plan unfolded and he prepared to follow his master into the heavens, all he could do was turn and tell her the truth. "I could have stood to be held a bit longer. I'm sorry."


	3. Yasutora

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. I just worship it.

* * *

He had made a pact. That was all that mattered.

So as he fled the scene of the fight, wondering how he could still be of use when he was so mangled, so slow, so weak, hat was the moment when he gave in to the despair. The look on Ichigo's face told him everything. _You can't protect yourself. How can you help me?_ And it was true, all true.

He had confronted the ones who came. He had thought he could at least keep them occupied until Ichigo came to finish them. And they had been just as strong as he suspected they were when he ordered Orihime to go and take Tatsuki with her. _He_ was the one who was not as strong as he thought.

It wasn't as though he hadn't questioned his worth before.

In those hoyden days where he was just another bully on the streets of a dusty Mexican town, every blow he threw was a question. _Do you understand me? Do you see I can hurt you too? Can you see now that I am here and real?_ Because as he understood it then, the only way not to get hurt was to hurt the other person first. It was Abuelo who taught him otherwise.

When he set himself between Yastora and those men intent on doing him harm, he had pierced the boy's wall. When the beating was over and they had come home, Sado had silently wept without knowing why. And Abuelo had talked to him with that gruff voice, telling him what he needed to hear. And the words had stayed with him, so by the time Ichigo had come across him getting the crap beaten out of him in that dark alley, Sado's principles had been set, his path clear and his hands never rose to hurt anyone for his own sake.

Which made it all the easier to accept Ichigo's offer, and to offer up his hands for the sake of others.

So why now, when the need was the greatest, were his hands suddenly slow and weak?

And if he could not fulfill his end of the bargain, would his friends abandon him? He told himself Ishida's solitude was self-imposed, but he knew they were keeping a distance. They could not bear to see him in such a state. That was the look he saw in Ichigo's eyes.

Back home, in that dark, empty apartment is where it dawned on him. He peeled off his shirt and headed to the bathroom to get a good look at his wound, which didn't really hurt at all. The blood on his chest was dry. The wound itself was shallow. It was a miracle Ichigo had come when he did. But to Ichigo, like his little sister Karin, any harm to anyone was unacceptable. Ichigo's look wasn't about Sado's helplessness, but his own. Yastora wondered how he could have forgotten this.

And then he wondered how he could become stronger so he could make it so that look would never cross Ichigo's face again.

He had made a pact, after all.


	4. Juushiro

**D****isclaimer**: I don't own it. I just obsess about it.

* * *

He had done the right thing. 

Years rolled by, the sun rose and set in its normal way, the cherry blossoms fell to the ground as they always did. The world had not changed because Shiba Kaien was dead.

Shiba Kaien, vice captain, husband to a lovely girl, pride of the Shiba clan, dead for the sake of his pride. Juushiro had made that happen.

No, he had not ordered Kaien into battle, much less into battle alone. No, he had not goaded him on with words about honor, pride, or even a hint of vengeance. But Kaien had gone, and now Kaien was dead, and the thirteenth squad had no vice captain. And the Kuchiki girl was shattered. And Ukitake was wasting away.

Not that he wasn't wasting away before then. He was used to the coughing and the red evidence of death's mark on him. And indeed, dead was dead, even in Soul Society. The Shiba shrine was proof enough of that. However, no one ever said he was actually dying. Even Kenpachi didn't cross that line, full aware that sweet and calm Retsu did not stand for such talk and truth be known, she was scary in her obstinacy. "You've lived this long," she would say with that soothing voice and those captivating eyes. "What would make you think you won't carry on for another thousand years?"

And he would nod his assent because he knew neither of them could stand talking about it for very long.

So it just festered in him. At first Shunsui would needle him, trying to get him to unload himself of the burden he was so clearly carrying. But Juushiro could be just as stubborn, and after a few seasons his friend has pretty much given up. "Always the worrywart," he snorted between cups of sake and long silences. He understood completely, of course, the loss and the guilt. Not because of anything he had experienced himself, but because Juushiro had that way about him. People could feel his pain. It was one of the things that attracted people to him. Either they lived out their angst vicariously through him or they felt the urge to protect him. Just look at Kiyone and Sentaro. Pests they could be, but comforting in their undying faith in him. And as for Shunsui, his sensitivity did all his work for him. Nanao would faint if she knew even a fragment of what Juushiro knew of him. Ever steadfast while giving every appearance of being a complete slacker. Perhaps that was why they complimented each other so well. Felix and Oscar style.

But even that bond did not allow Juushiro to speak of his thoughts. The only person he was certain knew his mistake was Kuchiki, and he had tried to drum it out of her. Two kinds of battles. One to protect, the other for pride. And the battle for pride was always a loner's walk. So he had told her. She, who had grown up in Rukongai and had more reverence for survival. It was almost as if she could have accused him of having Kaien act out his death wish, and used her to seal the deal. But of course she did not feel this way. Like Juushiro, she blamed herself. As if there was anything she could have done to change the outcome of events. And he had been silent because he knew that like himself, she was unwilling to let go of her guilt.

Now having an individual you see every day be a reflection of your own guilty thoughts was more than he could take. So he sent her away, hoping she would come back feeling a rejuvenation he could not manage. And for a while it seemed it would happen. Her reports were perfect and professional but still revealed a satisfaction with her position and betrayed the strength she was gaining. He would look over her missives with the pride of a teacher whose student had finally mastered a difficult lesson.

And then she went missing.

And was brought back a criminal. While he did not understand her actions, he could not bear to see another of his own dead. And then when he saw that boy, he knew in a heartbeat what had been in her mind when she broke the law. _If not Kaien, then this one who is so like him._ He would not have done a single thing differently.

So now here he is on the hill, breaking the law himself, with Shunsui at his side and the seal of Shihouin between them. This time he is absolutely sure he is doing the right thing.


	5. Toushiro

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own it.

**A/N:** Thanks to all of you for your kind reviews. It's nice to know that someone enjoys reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

* * *

The moment she opens her eyes, he will be relieved, and all will be right with the world again. 

Unohana says she is "stable," and that "the time when she comes back to us is up to her." Leave it to Momo to be contrary; it's been what feels like years. Her hair has grown a little, loose and free like a fan on her pillow, her cheeks are a little flushed, and anyone who didn't know what put her here would think she is merely sleeping.

Toushiro knows better.

Beneath the blankets and the nightgown Matsumoto had brought for her, on that pale white tummy, is an angry red scar. He knows because he looked. The need to confirm its existence was too much; he had to see for himself that she really was healing and therefore on her way back. It was a strange thing, the furtive scanning of the outside hallway and the locking of the door so he could peek at the sleeping girl, even in a "nonsexy way," as Matsumoto described it. She has become the closest he has to a confidant. Perhaps she always was. Momo only ever really heard what she wanted to, anyway, and hey, why is he thinking about her in past tense?

His eyes are heavy. He wishes he could be sleeping now too. But he can't. Even Unohana has given up on that, even arranged for a cot to be placed in the room for those frequent nights where he can only lay awake in his own bed terrified that Momo will open her eyes and he won't be there. Hitsugaya Toushiro, terrified. And he doesn't even really know what of. All he knows is that the sound of her breath is the only thing that can soothe him. It's almost as reliable as counting sheep. She's still alive. She's still alive. Aizen didn't completely take her. She's in limbo, possibly even watching over him, her invisible hands laid on his cheeks in benediction. Saint Momo.

She is, really. Never an unkind word, never a voice raised in anger. All kindness and a heart too soft for the thirteen squads, really. As much as people marveled about him, boy genius, they were amazed that Hinamori Momo even qualified to be a Vice Captain. But Aizen had chosen her, pushed her, helped her to bring the power she had to the surface. And it's true, there are few as skilled as she in the demon arts. Black feathers and a hole in a wall are nothing to her. Aizen must have seen this, his plan was so very tight. Everyone fell into the hole he dug.

Including Toushiro.

Especially Toushiro. He hadn't been inclined to show it too much, but he liked Aizen. He liked his kindness, his clear and undeniable wisdom. When Toushiro tried to imitate him, he always failed. The calm came off as cold. By the time it dawned on him that Aizen was so far ahead it would take years to catch up, his reputation had been sealed, and he was known throughout Sereitei as a captain with a hard bearing that rivaled Kuchiki's. But that wasn't so bad. People at least took him seriously and really, what more did he need? So when Ichimaru would try to needle him it was all the easier to brush off.

He'd never liked Gin. There was too much caustic playfulness there, too much clear scorn for everything and everyone. The smile was just misformed scowl. What Aizen had ever seen in him was unclear, except maybe the battle skills. Those went without question. But then so did his hatred. He despised everything, including his former captain.

It easy to pin Ichimaru. So very easy. Apparently, too easy. Just the way Aizen planned it. How he was so easy to like and Ichimaru so easy to dislike. This was why it was so plausible that Ichimaru would harm him. No one said it then, with Aizen hanging from the tower, but Hinamori. She spoke aloud the suspicions everyone else had. Including Toushiro. But in the end she was just one in a long line of gullible fools.

Including Toushiro.

So much for the boy genius. _Boy_ being the operative word. He knows he is young. But he also knows he is no longer that boy. Boys live in black and white worlds where the enemies are easily spotted. That is not this world. All the lines are blurred and the one thing he can can be absolutely sure of is that he'll feel better when Momo wakes up.

And she'll wake and things will be as they were. He can be himself again and not some kid smarting over the fact that his best friend in the world chose a dead man's word over his. Came after him with a released soul cutter. Prepared to cut him to shreds, and he would have let her because he never knew she had it in her.

And he hates her for it.


	6. Renji

**Disclaimer:** Nope, still don't own it.

* * *

You wouldn't know it from the look of him, but he's quite the talker. Trash talk is his forte and talk in general his constant fall back. Ask Abarai Renji about himself, and he'll paint a picture in coarse words of determination, strength, and longing. He longs for a lot of things. A Captain's smock. A load of money. And a new pair of glasses, since some dumbass kid broke his last pair. And a tiny white rabbit with violet eyes that spark with ferocity. 

He'll tell you he's been after that rabbit for years. He'll tell you once they were thick as thieves, seeing as they actually were thieves because kids don't survive Rukongai any other way. He'll tell you he lost the rabbit; he had loosened his grip on her once and she wriggled out of his arms and bounded off. He'll tell you he's caught up to her once or twice.

And she has gone and done it again.

Every time it seemed like he might catch up to her, she would bolt. Rabbits love to play tag.

Renji long ago accepted the fact that she was a creature of reserve and honor. How could she not be, seeing as she now carried the Kuchiki name? But how could she be so different and so terribly, impossibly the same? She has strength because she was a child of Rukongai. She has skill because she was a student of the Shinigami Academy. She has maturity because she had lived, loved, lost.

But the heart she carries is all her own. Even as a child, that heart had ruled her with ruthless power. Every companion they lost in Rukongai, she had wept over as if she had never witnessed death. When the Kuchiki clan picked her up, he knew her tears of guilt and loss were without limit because she had to abandon him. When Shiba Kaien died, he knew the well of saline in her eyes dried up from overuse. He saw her only once after that happened. Her face had become a mask of sorrow. For the first time, he could not bear to look at her and did not feel any loss when she was sent away.

He has gotten harder, too.

Apparently, not hard enough. His old habits would not die.

He had jumped at the chance to become Kuchiki's lieutenant. Why shouldn't he? He had the power. Even as a sixth seat in the Eleventh Squad he could easily wipe the floor with any of Kuchiki's other underlings. He had ambition a-plenty. And how here was the chance to show that stuffed shirt he was man enough to socialize with nobles. Particularly the one Byakuya calls sister. And they would be together again, just like in Rukongai, and life would be normal again. No matter what guise he put on it, his sole ambition was always to get back to Rukia.

He likes to think he doesn't know why.

Her cell in Sixth Division headquarters had become a favorite haunt of his. He would stand outside the bars and jibe at her like he'd done when he was a kid. He only truly became worried when for several days the child in her would not respond. She'd just glance a him with those baleful eyes and turn her chair to the wall. But then she made that eyebrow remark and he thought he'd hit pay dirt. But she took that hope away when she asked the question. "Do you think I'm really going to die?"

Of course not. She's a Kuchiki. Nobles are never executed.

But then ol' stick-up-his-ass himself came in and blew all his hope to hell.

But even his frosty words are nothing to the crushing pain he felt at her response. "He has never once cared for me." There you go, straight from the horse's mouth. She has given up.

Then why the hell has she stayed? If she felt so unwanted, why did she not back out, or try to? Why did she never come to him and tell him of her pain? Why is it now, when it's too late, that she is honest?

And what the _hell_ did she see in that kid to make her act in a way that would surely bring about her death?

He steps away from the bars. For once, words have completely failed him. And his precious rabbit, resigned to her depression, is totally fine with leaving him forever.


End file.
